


Daddy, you bastard

by PettyPrince



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Severus Snape Lives, This is not Harry/ Tobias Tobias is just a creep, Top Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PettyPrince/pseuds/PettyPrince
Summary: Snape finds Harry in need of rescuing, from his own father no less.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 9
Kudos: 349





	Daddy, you bastard

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being a lot more sentimental than I originally planned. One day I will actually manage to write 'nasty Snape.'   
> (Title is taken from Sylvia Plath's 'Daddy.)

Harry meandered through the streets of Cokeworth as if they were the _Rue de la Paix,_ so glad was he to simply walk the same paths his mother had known in her girlhood. The houses that lined the streets were old and dilapidated; they were surely standing in his mother’s time. She must have passed them on her way to school, rode past them on her bike. The town itself was miserable and grey, but Harry loved it for its association with a mother he never knew. He supposed it must have been brighter here when she was living.

His friends had thought it morbid when he told them he wanted to visit, had worried that he was living memories of the past. Harry came here looking for a _sense of closure,_ as his therapist liked to say. It had been a year exactly since the war ended, a year Harry had spent adrift and aimless. He had begun seeing a Muggle therapist, telling him he was a veteran of a recent Muggle war. The little lady in the cardigan had nearly vibrated with excitement when he had given her the laundry list of his psychiatric ailments. He was an abused orphan war-veteran without direction or goals in life. His professional aspirations paled into insignificance and, with his vault at Gringotts, felt no sense of urgency to enslave himself to the Ministry. His relationship with Ginny hadn’t broken up; it had never really started. In the end, she wanted someone dynamic with a lust for the future and lust for her, both emotions he could never seem to dredge up. The therapist had immediately booked him in for two sets of ten appointments, eager to crack open his skull and peer inside.

He spent a long time in the park, sitting on the swings like he had nowhere to go; imagining. This park was the setting of so many of Snape’s memories of his mother, both of them much younger than he was now. The swing set seemed small and forlorn; a rusted and forgotten toy.

The river was another of Snape’s childhood haunts and figured prominently in many scavenging sessions with his mother. Even through the distorting lens of Snape’s remembrances, it was clear that the scavenging was a game to his mother, and a true hunt for Snape. The scrawny boy, with the long face and the shabby clothes, must have made a peculiar playmate for the pretty girl from the nicer part of town. The river was just as foul as it was in Snape’s memories. It was late afternoon and the sun was still strong; the summer heat stirred up all the rotting putrescence of the polluted river and made the air heavy with the smell of chemicals and rotting things.

When it was truly evening, and late enough for the sun to dim; Harry was tired. He had been walking all day without stopping for food or for drink. He stopped at a traditional public house, the sort of place that was old enough and local enough that his Grandad may have drunk there. As Harry pushed through heavy wooden doors into a seemingly solid wall of tobacco smoke, he realised this was the first time he had ever set foot in a Muggle pub. The patrons were clearly all locals; they were all wearing the same half-aware expression of someone _too_ familiar with their surroundings. The customers were nearly all men and nearly all of them were surrounded by multiple empty glasses.

Harry somewhat awkwardly took a seat at the bar. The barman was wiping down a beer tap with a filthy rag.

He wasn’t sure what the protocol was in a Muggle pub; should he wait? Should he get the barman’s attention? Harry sat, vacillating; curiously intimidated by a pub full of gritty Muggles used to fighting with their hands.

“Get the lad a beer, Glassup.” Harry’s neighbour spoke up; his voice was loud with a distinct Brummie accent.

The bartender, _Glassup,_ apparently, looked from Harry to the man sitting at the stool to his right. He was ancient looking, like he’d been serving beer in this pub since the war. He also looked at Harry the way Petunia used to look at slugs before pouring salt on them. Pleasant old gentleman, indeed.

“A pint o’ bitter.” The man ordered for Harry when he didn’t speak up quickly enough. Harry was thirsty enough to drink water from that awful river, so could hardly complain.

Harry leant over the bar to hand the old man some cash he kept on him in case of emergencies, but his hand was slapped away.

“On me.” The man who ordered for him slid some coins over the countertop, which were hurriedly pocketed and shut in the till.

“Thanks, but you really don’t have to-“ Harry tried to give him the money from his pocket, but it was not taken.

“Don’t you know how much a pint is, lad? You’ll be robbed flashing your cash in here like that.” Once the money was stowed away again, the man elaborated. “I ordered it, I’ll pay for it. Suppose you don’t like it, you’d be a bit put out then…”

Harry didn’t argue with his reasoning, only thanked the man again. There was a pattern of overlapping rings on the bar where night after night they had run out of the sorry little mats with the curling corners.

The beer was finally slid over the bar, creeping toward him on a trail of condensation. Harry tried a sip; it _was_ bitter but not entirely unpleasant.

“S’alright. Thanks.”

“What brings you here, then?” Harry looked up, and was affixed by the most startlingly blue pair of eyes he had ever seen; they were both incredibly pale and incredibly saturated, ringed with a thin line of a darker navy. Taken aback, Harry really looked at the man for the first time. He was about sixty, with ink-black hair liberally threaded through with iron grey. Harry could tell it was naturally curly, but had been Brylcreemed down into slick waves. He must have been handsome once; in an old-Hollywood, Clark Gable or Omar Sharif sort of way. _Now_ , though, whatever good looks he may have once possessed had been wasted by a lifetime of hard-work, hard-drinking and deprivation.

“My Mum used to live here; I’ve come to see her old house.”

Harry was looked at askance, the blue eyes bright under heavy black brows. “From up the road, then; not this pit?”

“A bit, yeah.” Harry felt embarrassed, unsure when he had first marked himself as someone who didn’t belong in this dingy room. “Have you lived here long?”

“I used to live here; grew up here.”

“And you’ve come back?” Harry couldn’t quite keep the bemusement out of his voice.

“Cheeky beggar.” The older man took a battered packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “Fag?” He asked, holding the packet out to Harry.

“No, thanks. Don’t smoke.”

He seemed to find that funny, laughing as he lit up with an old fashioned metal lighter. “‘Course you don’t.” There was a long pause while he took a drag, then blew the smoke out in a long plume. “I’ve come to visit my son.”

“Thats- nice.” Harry took a long drink of his pint; if Harry thought it was an acquired taste, at least it was cold. “Any grandkids?”

The man laughed again, and Harry had to force himself not to cough on the smoke.

“You’re having a laugh; he’s not seen a pair of tits since his mother’s.”

Harry did cough then, spluttering as beer went down his windpipe.

“I- _see._ Right then.”The man slapped him on the back, very hard, right between his shoulder blades.

His neighbour ordered another drink; a stout. Harry started to wonder how many he’d had before he arrived; Harry wasn’t even halfway through his first.

“You might just meet him, come to think. I’ve been told he usually appears about now.”

“Is he not- _expecting_ you?”

“No. I’ve not seen him in years.”

Harry wondered if he was interrupting a grand reunion and offered to decamp to one of the little tables.

“Sit down and finish your drink. You can help me keep an eye out; just look for the miserable cunt with a face like a slapped arse.” If Harry hadn’t grown up with the Dursleys he expected he would have been shocked that a father could talk about his son in that way.

“You don’t get on, then.” That got another raucous, uncomfortable laugh.

“You could say that.”

Harry stayed talking to him through the remainder of his drink, and all through a second. The older man was caustic and blunt, but had a way of speaking that left you guessing; did he really _mean_ that, or was it simply an off-colour joke? With the help of alcohol in his blood, Harry found himself staying to listen to stories of what the town was like _in the old days_ before the mines were closed, his mother’s childhood. It sounded like another world; less shabby perhaps, but still a meagre and grindingly difficult existence.

Harry was halfway through his second beer, and well on his way to drunkenness, when he first noticed a strange look on his neighbour’s face. It was gone in a flash, but it was so clearly a villainous leer that there was no mistaking the expression. Perhaps his language was unnecessarily crude at times, and maybe he sometimes _did_ lean in a little too close when he spoke; but he couldn’t _possibly_ mean anything by it.

He should have left before the second beer, thought Harry, when he still could have apparated home without splinching himself. The man had a certain charm to him, Harry could admit; that was the reason he stayed for that ill-advised third beer. Harry had only just begun to explore his sexuality in his therapy sessions; last week half an hour was devoted to unpacking his complicated feelings concerning his attraction to other men. Harry was worried that his penchant for becoming fascinated with older men was something Freudian, perhaps a reaction to losing his father at so young an age and then losing Dumbledore, his father figure. Of course, in Harry’s recounting Dumbledore became Sergeant Major Dore, but the basic facts remained faithful to life. His therapist surprised him by disagreeing entirely; her take on the matter was that Harry’s strict Dursleyean upbringing had created an anxiety concerning same-sex attraction that manifested itself in lusting after only unavailable men. Harry thought he needed a few more hours _unpacking_ before he could make sense of this evening.

It was after that third beer that the hand crept onto his thigh. It started as an almost mate-y slap on the leg during the retelling of a story, but the hand’s continued presence was definitely _deliberate._ Harry, well on his way to being utterly drunk, decided that he didn’t care.

Harry was laughing, at a near-explosion in a mine of all things, when he heard _that_ voice.

“ _What_ are _you_ doing here?” It was unmistakeable; that low, sibilant hiss could belong to only one man on earth. Severus Snape.

“Here y’are, here he is; face only a mother could love.”

The pieces all fell into place then, in a moment of sickening clarity. He turned, and found himself looking at _the son,_ his very own Professor Snape. ‘Hogwarts’ Youngest Potions Master’ was in a Muggle Pub, in Muggle clothes. Harry shouldn’t have been so surprised to see him out for a drink in his _own local_ , but the thought would never have occurred to him. It was the sort of thing that _other_ people did; namely, ones that actually enjoyed human company.

Besides the clothes; Snape was wearing a look of such uncomprehending horror that Harry wished the floor would open up and swallow him, because Snape was staring at his father’s hand; the hand that was still casually groping Harry’s thigh.

“ _Mr. Potter-“_ The beginning was just like Snape’s classroom manner, when Harry was about to be given a week’s detention. The sentence that would have followed was bitten off and never spoken; Snape only blinked as if he expected to wake from a nightmare.

Snape turned away from Harry to assess his father. His eyes were full of so much hatred Harry wondered if Snape could cast the killing curse wandlessly and leave his father dead on the pub floor.

Snape’s impenetrably black gaze descended upon Harry’s; nothing like the deceptively clear blue of his father’s, Snape’s eyes were just like the man himself. Harry felt the brush of legilimency through his mind and offered up his memories of the evening; eager to demonstrate to Snape that he wasn’t part of an elaborate trap involving his estranged father.

“Remove your hand. _Now.”_ Snape drew his wand slightly, just enough that only his father would see.

_“_ Is he one of yours, then, my son? I _do_ apologise.” The elder Snape affected a posh, effeminate, boarding school accent; but obeyed his son’s demand and released Harry’s leg.

“ _Leave,_ and do not attempt to contact me again.”

Harry stood up, intending to quietly slip out the door and leave the Snapes to it, but Snape caught hold of his arm.

“Not so fast, Mr. Potter.”

He waited while father and son traded increasingly vicious insults and watched Mr. Glassup; who was monitoring the row like he kept a rifle beneath the bar.

Harry felt stupid, like he should have realised who he was talking to, or at the very least asked the man his _name._ Harry listened to him goading Snape, taunting him about his “unfortunate genetics, worst of both worlds”, his long hair, his clothes, anything he could think of; it was that endless stream of abuse that finally reconciled the man at the bar with the tyrannical Tobias Snape of young Severus’ memories.

Harry was chastened by the similarity between Tobias’ mockery of his son and the schoolyard insults openly levelled against Snape. He could see now that it wasn’t true at all, that the insults were simple cruelty. Snape was _unusual,_ but he wasn’t ugly. Harry hadn’t seen Snape since his acquittal, having chosen not to return to Hogwarts to complete his NEWTS, but he looked far healthier than he had during the war. Looking at Severus Snape through newly matured eyes, Harry could admit; he was not unattractive. There was a nobility to his face and stature that Harry could tell came from his mother. He had inherited those dark eyes from her too, and the cool haughtiness of his expressions. Snape had always cut an impressive figure in wizard robes, but the Muggle clothes made him _tangible;_ the black trousers and black cashmere jumper exposed the contours of his frame rather than concealing it in a swirl of robes.

Snape was _not_ ugly, nor was he “as selfish as the day is long” or a “scruffy git.” Harry found he couldn’t stand to listen to any more and cut across one of Snape’s bitter retorts.

“Professor Snape, come on, let’s just go…” Harry interrupted the argument; he tried to insinuate himself between the two in an attempt to break up the fight, but Snape kept Harry behind his back.

Tobias Snape smiled vindictively, “Someone’s been naughty, Severus; fucking the students, are we?” Tobias turned to Harry then, with mock concern said; “Don’t worry, darlin’, take your glasses off and you won’t care _who_ it is that’s-“

Snape’s wand slid down his sleeve, the tip just resting in his hand as he cast silently. In an instant Tobias Snape was choking, coughing with an awful wheezing rattle in his chest. His hands were round his throat, his eyes boring hatefully into his son’s. It went on for so long that Harry, afraid that Snape really would kill him, whispered to Snape to release the curse.

Once it was over and Tobias was slumped over the bar, gulping beer to soothe his injured throat; Snape took one last look at his father and led Harry out the door.

Severus wondered at the turn his evening had taken; he had not thought for a minute that it would end with him supporting a drunken Harry Potter out of the grottiest pub in Cokeworth. Potter attempted to stagger off on his own, muttering something about apparition co-ordinates.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter; you’ll splinch yourself and I’ll have aurors knocking on my door within the hour.”

Potter’s eyes were wide and glassy, barely focusing as cheap Muggle alcohol muddled his senses.

“T’wouldn’t be your fault- if I were _splinched.”_

Severus had an arm around Potter’s waist as he led him to his childhood home. “I’d expect to receive the blame, nevertheless; for letting the _boy who lived_ splinch himself.”

Potter was laughing and it echoed in the empty streets, off of abandoned terraces and jagged concrete paving.

Severus’ house was just alike its neighbours; dirty and in disrepair. Smoke had stained everything as grey as the river. There was no time for being ashamed of the state of his home; Potter was hardly sensible anyway. Severus hauled him up the steps and over the threshold before depositing him on the sofa. Potter attempted to sink into the cushions in a sprawl of limbs, but winced when a spring dug into the small of his back. Severus never sat on that sofa, it was reserved for unwelcome guests.

“Is this your house?” Severus ignored the ridiculous question; did Potter think he was breaking and entering?

Severus could only have spent minutes in his lab but when he returned Potter was asleep. Severus cursed himself for forgetting to apply what little Muggle first aid he knew; Potter should have been left in the recovery position to prevent him from aspirating his own vomit. Thankfully, Potter had _not_ vomited on his great grandmother’s hideous sofa, sparing Severus the hassle of burning it.

“Potter, drink this.” He held a vial out; it was not taken.

“Potter.” Severus shook him by the shoulder until his eyes were opened. “ _Potter._ Drink it.”

The young man took the vial,swallowed it all in a gulp. His hands were cold.

“And you didn’t think to ask what was in it? I could have just poisoned you.” The problem with Potter was that, after everything, he was still far too trusting of other’s good intentions.

“ _Was_ it poison?” Potter sounded exhausted.

“No.” Potter seemed to be trying to sleep again. “It’s a simple sobering draught; you’re lucky that Muggle alcohols can be easily removed from the blood with potions, you foolish-“

“Don’t shout at me, I have an awful headache.” Severus had barely raised his voice.

“ _That_ would be the hangover.” Severus gave him the second curative, which was gratefully received by a now blessedly lucid Potter.

“I don’t understand why he tried to find you if he just wanted an argument.” Perhaps, if Potter could have his famous curiosity assuaged he would realise he ought to _leave_.

“Despite my buying him out of this house when I started teaching, he is convinced I am concealing a large inheritance from the Prince family that he feels he is entitled to.”

“Well, are you?”

“Do you think I’d be living _here_ if I were?”

“Point taken.”

As the headache eased the tension went out of Potter’s limbs and he began to sink into the sofa, angling his limbs so as to avoid the worst of the springs. It was apparent that Potter had exchanged his cousin’s baggy castoffs for entirely too-tight clothing. The jeans were nearly painted on and the t-shirt rode up a little, exposing a strip of tan stomach.

“Tea?” Severus didn’t wait for a response, just fled hastily to the galley kitchen. He fussed around with the tea-things, wishing he could go back to the pub and dispatch his father for good. He would hardly be missed.

Severus had rarely felt hatred for anyone that equalled the hate he held for his father; not even Sirius Black had come close. As a boy he had hated his father with an intensity that verged upon obsession; some of young Severus’ best fantasies had been of how he could murder his father and get away with it. There was no chance he could have failed to recognise that profile as he walked into the pub; it represented the very worst of his childhood torments.

Severus hated the man so much he could not have simply walked away; he was so brimful of venom he would die of it if he could not take this last opportunity to inflict pain on his father.

With shaking hands, Severus stirred the tea and relived the moment of recognition.

His father was sitting at the bar, directly in Severus’ line of sight as he stood in the doorway. It was intentional, clearly designed to let Severus know he was there to be found. Tobias Snape never inflicted pain accidentally; it was always purposeful, calculated to inflict maximum harm.

_Still whoring,_ he had thought, as Severus watched him fondle a young man easily forty years his junior. Severus watched, disgusted, as the young man laughed; he was so clearly drunk, but Severus supposed you would have to be drunk to tolerate attentions from such a loathsome wretch as his father.

Severus began to lose himself in anger at the sight of those dreadful, cold eyes; to be under their regard nearly always meant _pain_ when he was a child.

His father tried to get his _companion’s_ attention, calling upon him to look at the dreadfully ugly son he had sired. The young man turned and Severus wished he were dead, that he had bled to death in the shrieking shack; death was preferable to seeing _this_ man reduced to one of Tobias Snape’s _things._

Severus felt sick;could barely look at those extraordinary green eyes while his father was still clutching Potter’s thigh in that proprietary clasp. It was revoltingly plausible to Severus, then, that _Snape_ somehow _knew_ about Potter; that he knew _who_ he was, who he was to Severus- Severus couldn’t manage to _fully_ legilimise Potter without the use of his wand if Potter was bent upon resisting, but he starved for some hint that things weren’t as black as they seemed.

Torn between relief and fury, Severus greedily absorbed the memories Potter gave him. Potter met his father by chance, thinking him a Muggle like any other and not the father of the infamous Severus Snape.

Severus didn’t know how he had missed the _pleading_ look in Potter’s eyes, but he now saw that Potter was in need of rescuing; the brat was drunk and in well over his head. Severus wasted no time in putting his father back in his place; he felt an almost physical relief once Potter’s leg was liberated.

Severus added sugar to the tea; they both needed it.

“ _There_ you are! I was about to send a search party.” Potter was trying for levity, but Severus could see that, now the alcohol was out of his system, shame had taken its place.

“Drink your tea, Potter.”

The tea was strong and sweet, perfect. There were a few long, merciful minutes of silence. Severus had just begun to knit together his frazzled nerves when Potter spoke, shattering Severus’ hopes that he would simply leave without commencing an interrogation.

“I still have your memories.”

“I don’t want them back.” _Why_ after everything Potter knew, did he suppose that Severus wished to dwell upon his past? Potter was the only fool trudging about this sorry town looking to _reminisce._

“But they’re your _memories._ You can’t just- _not_ want them; it’d be like burning a photo-album.”

“I’ll have you know I burnt all the pictures of myself as a child I could get my hands on.”

“That’s macabre. It’s not right to forget the past, Snape-“

“Don’t call me _that!_ Don’t associate me with _that man.”_ Severus slammed his mug of tea down on the coffee table before him, careless of the tea that sloshed onto the lacquer.

He hung his head between his hands, clutching at his hair in an agony of emotion. He shouldn’t let himself lose control around Potter; it was beyond humiliating. He wished that Potter would _go_ and leave him to fester in this house full of bad memories. He could locate without looking every dent in the plaster, every crack in the furniture; they had all been put there by his father.

“ _Okay,_ Sn- er; _Severus,_ then? Is that okay?”

Humiliating. Utterly humiliating. “Forget it, Potter.”

“ _Harry.”_ Potter’s voice was insistent as he demanded intimacies he had no right to; they had not even spoken in over a year. “Call me Harry, Severus-“

“ _Why?_ Why bother; I doubt we’ll be making a habit of this.” Severus picked his tea up again, balancing it on the arm of his chair between sips.

“We could. Couldn’t we just- I don’t know; _talk_ sometimes?”

“I’m sure I recall you having _friends,_ Potter.”

“ _Harry._ I won’t answer to Potter.”

“ _Fine.”_ Harry was silent and theatrically expectant. Severus sighed. “ _Harry.”_ He ground the name out between his teeth and cursed himself for giving in.

“Well, _Severus,_ to answer your question; _yes,_ I do have friends, I just- want to talk to you.”

“Get it out of your system now, then, and let me live in peace.”

Harry’s questions were surprisingly mundane. Severus was mined for the smallest details about 1970s Cokeworth, he even wanted to know what Severus and Lily had eaten for lunch on their days out together (little triangular sandwiches packed by Lily’s Mum, if you must know _Harry)._

It was all going so well until Potter’s stomach started growling. Severus thought he could feed him and send the boy on his way, happy with his crumbs of information and willing to let difficult subjects rest untouched.

Severus served a casserole from the slow cooker and Potter ate like a starving man.

Severus ate, as was his wont, slowly and deliberately.

“Anyone would think you hadn’t eaten all day.”

Potter smiled sheepishly, like he’d been caught in a lie. “I haven’t, not since this morning.”

“Do you mean to tell me you went on a drinking binge on a completely empty stomach? On your _own_?” Severus was livid. “You couldn’t even apparate! _What_ were you going to do?” Severus shattered their tacit agreement to _not speak_ of what happened that evening, though he had been determined to keep it.

Potter was silent, just staring at Severus. Finally, he said “I don’t know.”

“ _You don’t know.”_ Potter’s flippancy concerning his own welfare was utterly incomprehensible.

“Well, I’m fine aren’t I, no harm done.” Potter actually _shrugged_ and Severus could have screamed.

“One would almost think you didn’t care at all. Tell me, has our saviour fallen so far from grace that he welcomes the attentions of vile old men?”

Potter visibly paled. “I- I _wouldn’t have-“_ Potter paused as if he expected Severus to finish his sentences for him. Not being in a merciful mood, Severus waited with his arms folded, daring Potter to continue. He saw Potter’s throat constrict in a swallow before elaborating. “you _know; slept with him.”_

Severus was not mollified by that little bit of Gryffindor courage, now that it had been acknowledged Severus could not leave the sorry affair alone. “Just _when_ would you have started to object?”

Potter, sensing he had painted himself into a corner, went on the offensive. “Your Dad; is he gay _?”_

“He isn’t anything, Potter. He just wants a warm body to fuck.”

Severus remembered, then, how he had known things about his father no one should. Severus had known he used to see prostitutes whenever he could, often with money that was meant for groceries or bills. His father bought women, boys, girls; he didn’t care, he just took whoever was cheapest. He used to smoke, drink, fuck and gamble all their money away until Severus had taken to hiding it from him. He was beaten for thieving, of course, but it was worth it if his mother got soap to wash with and food to cook.

He remembered his father as a licentious, amoral man; the most selfish creature he had ever met. Even Voldemort had thought, once, that his schemes were the for the common good.

“I thought you were going to call me Harry.” Potter looked shocked; good. The stupid boy needed a shock, needed to take life seriously.

“Don’t change the subject, _Harry;_ you were telling me how you were going to avoid being picked up like a Knockturn Alley whore.”

“You’re saying he thought I was a prostitute!” Potter’s voice raised in outrage, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

“I’m _saying_ he thought he was getting it for free; quite unusually for him, I might add. Not that it would have made much of a difference, he still would have taken you back to a grotty B&B, had his way with you and turned you out of doors-”

“Just _stop it.”_ Potter was out of his chair, gripping the table with whitened knuckles. Severus remained seated, playing at a cool collectedness he didn’t feel.

_“Why?_ Did you think he’d be _kind_ to you? When he thought you were a tart he’d found in an obvious cruising spot? Have some fucking _sense!”_

Potter was stock-still, labouring under some intense emotion Severus couldn’t fathom. With his chest heaving and eyes bright and deadly Severus was reminded that this was the same man who, only a year before, had dispatched the Dark Lord. The electrical tang of magic was palpable in the air, as if it was barely contained by such a young and wilful master.

“Is that what you were doing there, then? Looking for a _tart._ ” Potter’s face was furious.

“I don’t pay for it.”

It was as good as a confession, though framed as a denial. He had just confessed to Potter that he was, like his father, out looking for a casual fuck. The tone of the argument round the kitchen table, the emotions that ran high with tense anger and resentment; it all began to remind Severus of a domestic row. Bizarre, ridiculous, but Potter radiated betrayal.

“So that’s what you go to that pub for? That’s how you spend the holidays?” Potter somehow latched onto every one of Severus’ vulnerabilities and savaged them like a dog. Did he feel he had a right to know _everything,_ even after all he _had_ seen? Severus was reminded of Potter’s invasion of his penseive; to Potter all his privacy was an illusion, to be violated whenever he saw fit to do so. Never-mind that Severus hadn’t been the one in trouble tonight, he was once again in the wrong.

“Yes, I do; I go out looking for men to fuck!”

Potter didn’t flinch, not even now that Severus had surged from his chair to loom over him. He stared into Severus’ eyes, challenging. He knew he had broken all of Severus’ resolutions. Severus had resolved to not ever let Potter into his home and he had done just that, even made him _dinner._ He had lost the battle regarding the forced intimacy of christian names, he had failed to make the boy leave, had failed to safeguard his secrets, had exposed all the raw wounds of his emotions. Severus could do nothing now but answer all those horrid questions; he couldn’t even _lie._

“Do you bring them back here?” Potter was alive, triumphant.

“I usually do.”

“Do _you_ let them stay the night?”

“They don’t often wish to.”

“I suppose I’ve ruined your night, Severus.”

He hated mockery, and hate made him _stupid._ “Yes, you have.”

Before Severus could move or think Potter was upon him, kissing him. Potter’s hands grasped at his shoulders, at his neck to pull him closer. Before Severus could tell himself how _impossible_ this should be, he had his hands on Potter’s cheeks and his tongue in his mouth. Potter was ferocious and passionate as he kissed and nipped, reawakening all the thwarted anticipation of that evening. Potter, in a sensual frenzy, began rutting against one of his thighs and Severus felt his control slipping away from him. This was _madness._

Severus held Potter at arm’s length, intending to reason with him, to make him see sense. Instead, he only said; “You smell like an ashtray.”

Potter was only thrown for a second before a Cheshire grin broke across his face. “Come, Severus; take a shower with me.”

How and when Severus had given himself away to this infernal creature, he did not know. Severus was only aware that he could not possibly refuse him anything, and that Potter had decided to start making demands. Potter knew that he had him completely, that Severus was entirely in his thrall. Potter turned and walked towards the narrow staircase, confident that he would be followed.

Severus watched, half in awe and half in horror as his former student disrobed in front of him. Potter set his glasses and his wand down upon the sink and held him with those unnaturally vivid eyes, concealing them for only a moment as that t-shirt was peeled off. Severus hovered in the doorway, mesmerised, but reluctant to move any closer. He couldn’t help looking, was unsure if he could have torn his eyes away, but didn’t know how could allow himself to _touch._ The bathroom scene, the slow strip-tease; it was all too familiar. This very scenario had featured in too many of his private, most shameful fantasies of post-Quidditch rituals. He would be content simply to watch Potter pleasure himself under jets of running water; he would preserve the memory and inhabit it like an addict.

Potter worked open the button of his jeans and eased down the zip, exposing tight boxers dampened with arousal. Severus pressed the heel of his hand to his aching groin and Potter’s eyes followed the movement hungrily, ripping off jeans and boxers with alacrity. Suddenly, Potter was exposed before him, every contour of his slim figure revealed in the bright overhead light.

Potter came close enough for Severus to reach out and feel the texture of all that bare skin, but he didn’t dare touch him.

“Why are you scared of me?” Severus remembered being called a coward by this young man before, but all the trials of his life had never compared to the terrifying reality of Harry Potter testing the limits of his devotion.

Potter took hold of his wrist and removed it from his crotch. The loss of pressure was a torture, as was the agonising proximity of Potter’s hands to his cock. Potter led Severus’ shaking hand to a tanned throat, damp with sweat. Severus was undone, and his hands were upon every inch of skin he could reach. It was perfect, velvet smooth, interrupted with the occasional ridge of a curse scar.

Severus was close enough to smell the reek of Marlboro Lights in Potter’s hair, obscuring his own scent entirely. Severus hardly recognised himself as he gathered Potter up and hoisted him into the shower. Potter didn’t resist at all, as if he were foolish enough to trust a man like Severus, to be naked, unarmed and vulnerable while he was still fully clothed. With a wordless spell he sent warm water cascading down, drenching Potter in seconds. With wet hair and an open, guileless expression, he was the most erotic thing Severus had ever seen. When Potter pulled him in again, it was like a kiss in the rain. The water came down so hard upon them they were forced to separate too soon; soaked and gasping for air.

“Off, come on.” Potter was tugging at the hem of his sodden jumper, attempting to pull it over his head. Severus couldn’t comprehend what Potter thought he was doing, or why he wanted to see more of him, but the jumper was off and being thrown away. Instead of the expected repulsion, Potter looked at his scars in fascination. He traced the old and the new across his torso, stopping at the two puncture marks at his throat. They were nasty and deep, indented scars; the bite had nearly killed him, after all.

“How do you explain these to the Muggles?” Potter still had his hand on his neck, and Severus found himself struggling to concentrate. It was worse when Potter got him out of his trousers, for all he could think about was how he had come to be naked in a shower with Potter.

“I use a glamour.” That wasn’t all he used; the confundus charm was essential, as was _obliviate_ on one particularly memorable occasion. Severus had, _stupidly_ , brought home a young man from a nearby university campus. He was Spanish and in his middle twenties, with dark hair and sun-bronzed skin. Severus’ second mistake was fucking him from behind, hiding his bright brown eyes against the bedsheets. It was all too easy then to image _green_ and he had called him the wrong name. The name _Harry_ wouldn’t have meant anything in particular to him, but Severus obliviated him anyway; selfishly, for his own memories were left intact.

“They don’t have the slightest _clue_ who you are, do they?

“If they did I don’t suppose they would want anything to do with me.”

“Really? I hear you’re something of a _celebrity_ nowadays.” There was no resentment in that tone, at all.

Severus took a chance, leant in close and whispered; “fame isn’t everything.”

Potter laughed and it was uncomplicated and purely joyful. This was nothing like Severus’ furtive nights with strangers, there was so much history between them that he could confidently say Potter knew him better than any one living, possibly better than anyone _ever_ had. Potter seemed to just _sense_ Severus’ retreat into his own thoughts, calling him back into the physical world with a long caress down his side.

“Are you still angry, Severus? About tonight?’

Severus pressed Potter’s slighter frame against the tiles, bringing them both directly under the fierce centre of the spray.

“It makes me _sick,_ the thought of him- _touching_ you.” Severus had no right to say those things to Potter, as if Potter were _his,_ but Severus had driven himself into a mania of desperation.

Severus squeezed shower gel into palms and raked them down Potter’s quivering chest. “I’m not angry with _you,_ though, Harry…”The soap was washed away by the water, trailing down athletic thighs before it disappeared.

Harry opened his mouth to speak but a gasp rang out instead, as Severus pinched one of his nipples. Severus rubbed more soap across his arms and shoulders, kissing the taut tendons at the side of his throat.

As Severus kissed down that throat and chest it was only natural to drop to his knees, placing wet and open-mouthed kisses onto Harry’s stomach and lapping at the rivulets of water. When Severus stroked up his inner thighs with lathered hands Harry’s hips jutted forward, and he heard soft, incoherent noises from above him. Potter seemed in pain, with a knitted brow and every muscle in his body tense and straining like a racehorse at the gate. It likely _was_ painful for someone still so young to be denied for so long. Severus massaged the sensitive skin at the seam between upper thigh and pubic bone, his hands slick with liquid soap.

“I’ll clean you up, Harry. He won’t-“

“Don’t talk about anyone else. Please, not when I’m with _you.”_

He certainly sounded as if he meant it, and Severus wanted more of Harry’s gasping and quivering. Heedless of the water in his eyes, Severus licked all along Harry’s cock and was rewarded with another stuttering gasp. Harry was pleasantly vocal, seemingly so unabashed with Severus on his knees before him that he voiced every shock of pleasure he was given. It was encouraging to have him so _pleased_ and Severus repeated every kiss and lick that was followed by a particularly lovely moan. When Severus swallowed Harry down completely he had to hold him up against the tiles by his hipbones, as Harry’s knees buckled at the rush of pleasure.

_Yes,_ he was perfect, perfect; all of him was perfect… Severus felt hands convulsively gripping at his soaking hair, pulling it thrillingly tight as a hint of short nails dug into his scalp. Severus released his grip on Potter’s hips slightly, just enough to let Harry rock his hips forward into Severus’ mouth. Harry let out a whine of frustration, which was soon bitten off into a noiseless shout as Severus swallowed around him.

Harry’s whole body seemed to thrum and vibrate with need, and as his fingertips twisted in Severus’ hair he knew Harry was close, all but seconds away from coming down Severus’ throat. Suddenly, those hands were trying to drag Severus off of him, and Potter was saying “Don’t make me come! Don’t-“

He released Harry completely, though he was desperately ready. Potter’s hands were still in his hair, but his eyes were shut tight. “Don’t make me come. I want you _in me_ when I…”

Severus stood, tilting Harry’s chin toward him until their eyes met, “Are you- _certain-“_

_“_ Don’t make me beg you, I don’t know how much longer I can stand it!”

Severus caught him in a passionate kiss. Harry would have all he wanted from him, whatever it was.

“Do you think you’d need to _beg me_ to take you? When I can hardly stand to look at you without rutting against you like an animal?”

The world spun as Harry apparated them away. When the material world coalesced once again into tangibility, Severus was atop Harry on his bed, though they were perilously close to hanging over the side. It was impressive wandless magic, a reckless display of power.

“Not bad, one would think you’d been here before.”

“Maybe a little off.” Harry rolled them further into the centre of the bed, and Severus was thankful that he kept this room neat and well-appointed for his _guests._ The bed was one of Severus’ own purchases, an antique; he refused to sleep in his parent’s old iron bed. The sheets were fresh and white linen, though they were dampened by their still-wet hair.

Harry’s arms were wrapped round him as he clung to Severus, kissing his face and his the ridge of his nose, right where it had been broken. Things that would have mortified Severus, had anyone else done them, didn’t sting at all.

“What do I smell of now?” Harry was teasing him, and still Severus didn’t mind.

“Sex.” Harry’s breath caught in his throat, shocked again. He felt Harry’s cock twitch against his thigh, hot as a brand against his skin. It was true, the acrid smell of the bar had been washed away to reveal the clean scent of skin, fresh sweat and musk.

He summoned a vial of lubricant from the nightstand, and Harry watched with wide eyes.

Severus unstoppered the bottle and poured some into his hand, keeping eye contact with Harry.

“Did you make that yourself?” Severus stroked up Harry’s inner thigh, painting the skin with the scentless and ultra-viscous fluid. He _had_ made it himself, to his own exacting standards and was really rather proud of it.

“Do you always engage in small talk during sex?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never done this before.” He sounded so matter of fact, as if it were _normal_ that he were about to lose his virginity to his old professor he’d spent half of his life hating. Severus saw Harry, nude in his bed and pink from the shower, as other’s would see him. They would react the same way Severus had when he recognised that it was _Harry_ his father was fondling. They would see a pervert coaxing a young man into bed, selfishly taking his virginity. Never mind if it was just the one night, Severus was no one’s ideal first time.

“What is it? Severus? I know I’m not very _experienced,_ but-“ Severus retracted his hands completely, sitting up and trying to avoid touching Harry at all.

“I can’t do it. You should go.” Severus kept his tone flat and emotionless, but couldn’t look at Harry. He might find rejection embarrassing now, but he would be spared tomorrow morning’s regret. “Find someone nice, someone you trust.”

“But I _do_ trust you-“

“Find someone else. I’m too old for you anyway.”

Harry held onto his shoulders as he went to move off the bed, intending to dress. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not _that_ old. Besides, Wizards live much longer than Muggles.” Harry was serious now, and forced Severus to look at him again. “And don’t tell me what I want. Don’t tell me I should go and find one of my _fans_ to sleep with.” The bitterness with which he spoke of his admirers was astounding; rather than basking in adulation, Harry’s lip was curled in disgust.

“Are you sick of being loved, Harry? Are you here because you want someone who hates you? Is that why you’re resorting to the likes of my father and I? Do you _like_ bitter and twisted-“

“Don’t even think about him, Severus! He’s _nothing_ , he’s no-one.” Harry’s earnest pleading and open eyes were hypnotising, daring Severus to use legilimency if he would not believe him.

“Besides, I know you don’t hate me. I know all your secrets, remember?” _How_ had he managed it, this man that had once been such an unassuming boy? How had he done what no one else ever had? Another kiss had all of Severus’ muscles relaxing as he gave in and accepted his utter ruination.

Satisfied that he had given up trying to leave him, Harry continued relentlessly; “In fact, I think you rather like me…” His hand found Severus’ cock then, that was _still hard_ despite it all. His morals were betrayed by own greed and lust, and he groaned into Harry’s mouth. He had never been this way with any of his lovers before and even if they would only have one night together, Severus was ruined for anyone else.

He laid Harry flat on his back again, to kneel between his legs. “You’re a conceited wretch, Potter.”

“Not your classroom voice, please. The other one…” Severus was at a loss to his meaning and busied himself finding the lubricant.

“Spread your legs, _Harry.”_

They fell open, bracketing Severus on either side. “That’s the one, when you call me _Harry.”_ Potter’s voice dropped an octave on the last word and Severus wondered if he were still drunk.

“ _You_ talk too much.”

Severus found Harry’s hole with a single slick finger and rested it there. “Just the one…”

“I won’t _break.”_ Harry was leaning up on his elbows to watch Severus. The scrutiny was disconcerting, as he tried to moderate the extent to which _hunger_ and _eagerness_ showed on his face.

“You may, if I’m not careful.” Harry’s eyes flickered suspiciously down to his lap before he collapsed back down on the mattress.

Severus pushed until his finger slid inside, up to the second knuckle. The only thing that betrayed Harry’s nerves was a slight tensing of his thighs, for he was otherwise silent. Severus began to push until he could push no further, withdrew, then pushed again. It was so hot, so tight, Severus didn’t know how he’d last two minutes.

Harry was still quiet, and hissed a little in pain at two. When Severus started to move his fingers searchingly Harry leant up a little; “What are you-“ the question died in a hoarse shout as Severus found his prostate. Severus made sure to brush it again and again until Harry was squirming and twisting the bedsheets. At three, Harry was impatient. His fists were full of knotted linen and his cock was red and achingly hard against his stomach.

“Come on, just- _do it.”_

“Not _yet.”_ Severus always fastidiously prepared his lovers and would not make an exception for the deflowering of the _boy who lived._ Perhaps he even dragged it out a little, just to luxuriate in the sight of Harry so desperately wound-up.

He withdrew his fingers to the sound of Harry’s “ _finally!”_ and lined himself up.

“I’ll try not to _hurt_ you-“

Harry released the sheets to hold Severus’ hips, “ _I know.”_ It was only the sincerity of the trust on Harry’s face, and Severus’ conviction not to violate it, that allowed him to push forward into Harry’s body. It resisted him, at first, and Harry’s eyes were screwed shut against the pain.

“Push back against me, Harry.” He could feel him try to comply, but his brow was still tense and shiny with the sheen of sweat. It stuck his hair to his forehead; Severus pushed it back and out of his eyes, shushing him like a child.   
The hands at Severus’ hips, however, were still tight and urging and Harry’s erection hadn’t flagged.

“I said I wouldn’t break, you don’t need to _coddle_ me…” Harry’s voice was thin and quiet, but he relaxed enough that Severus’ pelvis came flush against Harry’s body.

Severus was still and shaking; he knew that Harry was watching him as he struggled for composure. Being inside Harry was overwhelming, as was the slow caressing of Severus’ hipbones, still too prominent after a year of peacetime. The exertion of holding himself immobile was visible in the tremor of his muscles, with almost all his weight supported on his arms. He felt Harry clench around him, and the strangled groan that followed was barely recognisable as his own voice; he was on the edge of orgasm already and had to shut his eyes against the sight of Harry beneath him to last. 

“ _Move,_ damn you!” He thought it was too soon, but immediately as the command was issued his hips canted forward involuntarily; he was powerless to stop his body reacting to that permission. Once was not enough and now that he was moving he couldn’t stop himself; kept thrusting shallowly forward, watching Harry’s half-lidded eyes roving across his body.

Harry murmured encouragements, urging Severus to go _faster_ and _harder_ as he wrapped his legs around Severus’ waist.

“Want it hard, do you?”

“ _Yes!”_

Severus began fucking him with abandon. Sweat ran down his back and the bed creaked, but Severus was insensible; he cared only for Harry’s low moans of satisfaction as his prostate was grazed again and again. Harry’s body was undulating beneath his own in mindless need, his eyes glazed over and unfocused. It was too much to bear and Severus couldn’t possibly last. His movements became increasingly erratic, the thrusts deep and irregular.

Harry’s breath caught, his eyes shut, and his whole body convulsed as he came. Severus felt the warmth of Harry’s come between them as Harry clamped down around his length; combined, Severus could no longer withstand such an onslaught of sensation. He stilled deep inside Harry and for a moment he knew nothing _but_ Harry as he found his release.

He had just enough presence of mind to prevent himself collapsing on top of Harry, who was supine and panting amongst concertinaed linens. He eased his spent cock out of Harry and became fascinated with the sight of his come dripping down between his legs.

Severus was suddenly awkward as Harry tangled their limbs together and held Severus close, _cuddling_ into his side.

“You’re not kicking me out.” Harry’s legs trapped his as he clung like a limpet.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re not going back to that pub.”

“I don’t suppose I will, if my father’s going to be hanging around.”

“ _Because_ you’ll be here with me.”


End file.
